


Madam Granger

by cherry_cup



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Hermione is 22 Tom is 17), 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Tom Riddle, Stalking, small age difference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry_cup/pseuds/cherry_cup
Summary: When Hermione Granger secures the position of librarian at Hogwarts, she becomes the object of fascination for a particular Dark Lord in the making. AU. 1940s (no time-traveling)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 276
Kudos: 789





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially meant to be a one-shot, but I feel like it would benefit from a multi-chapter approach. Since this is AU, some things are a bit different about the 1940s of Tom Riddle's time. I hope it makes sense, overall and hope you like it!

“May I help you with that, Madam Granger?”

Hermione stills. The hairs on the back of her neck curl and the stepladder gives a strange creak under her feet. 

She did not hear him come up behind her, but then, she never hears him. Unlike most of the students who spend time in the library but do not heed the strict rules, he is always unfailingly quiet and polite. Almost _too_ polite.

Hermione glances briefly over her shoulder in acknowledgement. The lean and handsome boy in front of her has got his hands behind his back in a picture of solicitude.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Riddle. You may return to your work.”

She flicks her wand wordlessly and the heavy tomes slide back on the shelves above her head, while a few others float down in a neat pile on the trolley.

“I don’t mind helping. In fact, I quite enjoy it. Besides, I needed a break from studying.”

His tone is just the right mix of unctuous and respectful. His eyes are lowered modestly to the stepladder, though she can tell he is observing her closely.

Hermione suddenly feels self-conscious about her ankle-length woolen skirt, which at the best of times would be a prim and matronly article of clothing, but which under his gaze feels like a flimsy piece of gauze.

She steps down from the ladder and assumes a very polite but distant tone. “Much as I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Riddle, I am quite capable of finishing here. If you feel that you require a break, I suggest calling it a night and retiring to your common room.” 

_Please do, in fact_ , she thinks, or wishes, to be more accurate.

It’s not that Tom Riddle isn’t the perfect little gentleman, but Hermione cannot help feeling uneasy around him. No other seventeen year-old is like him: so perfectly controlled and intensely devoted to his persona. In the weeks she’s come to know him, she has had the unjustifiable yet distinct impression that there is something beyond these irreproachable manners. Not just the ambition of a young man who wishes to ingratiate himself with the staff, but something harder to pin down, something _stranger_. 

Tom Riddle’s face breaks into a sinuous smile. “Oh, I could not possibly retire so early. One can hardly _think_ in the common room. It’s so much more pleasant and civilized here.”

Hermione gives him a cool smile in return. Yes, the Slytherin Head Boy is often seen spending time in the library, but never really _studying_. No, she has noticed that the books he is most preoccupied with have little to do with the Seven Year curriculum, and more to do with arcane magical knowledge, some of it quite obscure.

“Please, let me take the last row,” he insists, taking a step forward. “It’s the least I could do.” 

Hermione pauses. She could tell him off, _properly_ this time, but she doesn’t feel up to it. He is a very well-regarded young man in the school and Head Boy, to boot. All the professors dote on him, with only a few exceptions. Headmaster Dippet himself sings his praises. She cannot afford to step out of line, not when Professor Dumbledore went to so much trouble to secure her this position. As a Muggleborn, Hermione’s choices were to return to the war-ridden Muggle world and find a regular job of some sort, or try to find a place in the magical world where her blood status was not under the Ministry’s scrutiny. Returning to Hogwarts was the next logical step. When Irma Pince, the former librarian, died of a heart attack, Dumbledore wrote to her suggesting the position. Hermione could only be grateful.

 _He won’t be here next year_ , she thinks, looking up at the handsome Slytherin.

She gives in. “All right, then. Thank you, Mr. Riddle.”

He steps forward, wand raised. “Please, will you call me Tom?”

Hermione blinks. “No, certainly not.”

Her affronted tone and the quickness of her reply make him smile. She, unlike him, has a harder time keeping herself in check.

“My apologies,” he murmurs. “I did not mean to be too familiar.”

Hermione forces herself not to scowl.

He begins shelving the books without another word. His wordless magic is almost as smooth as hers.

Hermione watches him for a moment. Then she moves past him.

“Is it true that you have read almost all of the books in this library?” he asks, before she can disappear behind another bookshelf.

Hermione gives him a surprised look.

“Why, who told you that, Mr. Riddle?”

“Oh, one hears things. You used to be a student here, didn’t you, Miss?” His expression is perfectly innocent.

Hermione stands a little straighter. Not that it helps a great deal. Of the two, she unfortunately looks younger. But she knew that one of the challenges of her position would be her age. A twenty-two year-old librarian is hardly a “Madam”.

Still, she insists on it.

“It’s Madam Granger. And no, I have not read all the books in this library, but not for lack of trying. Now, I shall leave you to it.”

Tom Riddle lowers his eyes again modestly, but she can feel those same eyes on the back of her neck as she turns into the corridor.

She shivers a little, not knowing exactly why. Where did he hear about her reading?

* * *

It would be foolish to deny that he _has_ been watching her and she _has_ noticed him watching her.

In the first month of her arrival, she chucked it up to curiosity. Most of the students were curious about her. Young new librarian of uncertain origins – bound to draw a little bit of attention. Headmaster Dippet was kind enough not to stand on ceremony during the Welcoming Feast. He merely introduced her as a “brilliant former Gryffindor” who would be joining the staff after Madam Pince’s untimely demise, and that was all. The goblets were raised in her honour and then everyone moved on.

Not him, apparently.

He introduced himself the very next day, going up to her desk at the entrance and letting her know that he was going to be frequenting the library quite often and would be needing access to the Restricted Section from time to time.

“Certainly, Mr. Riddle, if you have a note from a teacher.”

Tom Riddle bowed his head an inch. “Of course. I would not dream of going against the rules.”

She remembered thinking, _I did not say you would._

But the first impression was, _what a nice young man_ , coupled immediately with _steer clear of him._ Hermione had learnt to trust her instincts.

It was difficult to steer clear, though. He never made it obvious that he was watching her, as he had such a talent for appearing innocuously in the background, but he somehow always knew where she was in the library. Point in fact, the effortless way he’d found her tonight.

And outside the library – well, she did not want to think about it too closely. 

* * *

Hermione zips down her long skirt and lets it fall to the floor. She rolls down her stockings. She unbuttons her girdle and bra. She heaves a happy sigh when she finally removes the pins from her hair and lets the tight knot at the back of her head fall into unruly curls. She runs her hands down her scalp and almost moans in pleasure at the feeling. Here, in the comfort of her cozy rooms above to the library, no one can see her, not even him.

 _He’ll be gone in a few months_ , she reminds herself, falling naked into an armchair.

* * *

At breakfast, Professor Merrythought is asking her about some of the people she knew while she was a student, whether she has heard from any of them in the last five years, particularly Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, weren’t they close?

Hermione mumbles something vague about exchanging letters. In truth, she hasn’t seen her friends in over a year. Grindelwald’s take-over has meant far less interaction between Muggleborns and Purebloods.

She is relaying this to Professor Merrythought as subtly as she can, when a stubborn curl unravels from her fresh knot. Hermione feels its ticklish caress against her cheek. She tucks it back surreptitiously, sinking her wand into her knot, as she’s wont to do sometimes.

She hopes no one else saw that.

And yet, she feels that someone else _has_.

She feels eyes on her, on the back of her head.

Hermione looks over her shoulder at the Slytherin table. Tom Riddle is laughing along to whatever Malfoy and Dolohov are saying to him, clearly not paying attention to her.

Clearly.

But – when it comes to him, things are not so clear.

She shakes her head, focusing her attention back on the Professor. So what if he’s watching her? He’ll find nothing interesting, except the fact that she doesn’t have the right sort of blood.

The future may not be bright, but she can do her best to survive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you for all your reviews and encouragement, because I often get insecure about my writing, and it's so lovely to be reminded people like it, so, thank you! I hope you like this chapter. 
> 
> (Nominally, I've set the number of chapters at six, but I might go up to eight or ten, depending on how much space I need to finish the story)

It does not take long for Riddle to show up with a teacher’s note.

“Good afternoon, Madam Granger. Here is a pass from Professor Slughorn. He has given me permission to investigate the properties of certain lesser known potions in the Restricted Section.”

The soft autumn light streaming through the windows warms the sharp hollows of his cheekbones, giving his perfect smile a self-congratulatory air.

Hermione taps the note with her wand to verify its authenticity. She looks up. “Could you name those lesser known potions, Mr. Riddle? They are not included in the note.”

His smile does not falter, though there is a slight crease at the corner of his eye.

Tom Riddle came prepared of course. He lists them off quite casually.

“I see. I did not know you were so interested in hair loss,” she notes, staring at his rich and groomed head of hair. 

“There’s no such thing as a frivolous subject. Only a frivolous approach,” he counters smoothly, a faint flicker of condescension in his eyes.

Hermione smiles coolly. “Indeed, no one can suspect you of a frivolous approach, Mr. Riddle. Follow me.”

She does not like walking ahead of him. She does not like the way his eyes take her in. She has never met anyone whose gaze was so intense and precise, yet also, strangely detached.

There is only a blue rope which closes off the Restricted Section, but of course, that blue rope contains strong wards which can only be unlocked by her and the Headmaster. Normally, Hermione would use her wand to unlock the passage, but Riddle is a special case. She does not wish for him to learn the movements. Most students at Hogwarts could not, even if they watched attentively, mirror a spell this complicated, but she won’t make the mistake of underestimating this particular young man. So, she merely traces one finger slowly down the ridges of the rope and nods her head twice.

She does not see the look on Riddle’s face when she performs this bit of wandless magic. Though he is quick to school his features, there is a glimmer of genuine admiration in his eyes. He especially lingers on her forefinger, on its strange, silky movement, almost as if it were a separate enchantment.

Hermione unties the rope and steps aside.

“You have an hour and a half, on the clock. I will be patrolling regularly to ensure that you are not abusing your privilege, but I am only telling you this for protocol’s sake, for I am sure you would do nothing of the sort, would you, Mr. Riddle?”

Her words may flatter, but her tone warns him.

Tom smiles like a guileless cherub. “I would never wish to disappoint you, Madam Granger.”

As she walks back to her desk, Hermione wonders what _exactly_ he will be researching in that Section, for, he has fooled no one with his hair potions and he knows it.

At the end of the day, when all students have left the library, she walks briskly into the Restricted Section and casts a charm that should reveal which books have been used last. She is _quite_ peeved when the charm brings up only a few gnawed and dusty tomes on domestic potions which were made illegal due to unfortunate mishaps.

Hermione leans against a shelf. Her instincts tell her he was looking elsewhere, but he must have covered his tracks somehow. Yet this only makes her more curious, for the question is, why would he need to cover his tracks?

She shakes her head, snuffing out the charm. Better to leave curiosity aside. She will gain nothing from it but trouble.

* * *

Stepping out the door of Hogsmeade’s Post Office, Hermione gives a small shudder and raises the scarf to her mouth. It is unseasonably cold for October, even in the Scottish Highlands. The chill does invigorate her a little. She spent a good quarter of an hour with the Postmaster, explaining to him what the Muggle newspapers she’d received in the mail were concerned with. The grizzly man had no idea about the Wehrmacht and the Allies. Of course he did not.

Hermione has Medea Lovegood to thank for this package, Medea being the only witch bold enough to send her Muggle newspapers in the vicinity of Hogwarts. Grateful though she is for her friend, at times like these, Hermione has to push aside the painful memory of her parents sending her letters with news of the world. This was before Grindelwald’s efficient coup. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Granger are known as Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins and reside in Wales, where they keep a vegetable shop and have no memory of a daughter. Only Hermione knows how difficult it was to relocate her family during a war. She did not manage to ship them out of England, but she prays daily they will catch no one’s eye in the little hamlet where they live. Though she has been tempted many times, she steadfastly resists the urge to reach out to them, knowing how reckless that would be. Still, it stings very much to be voluntarily orphaned, and it will forever sting. The last time she spoke with Fleamont and Septimus, they assured her she would, in time, bring her parents back home. This state of affairs could not last long, they believed. Even if Grindelwald continued to rule through his puppet ministers, he would become more relaxed in his approach, and the government would return to normalcy in due time. Septimus claimed that there were good men in the Ministry, slowly restoring – or undermining, if you want to look at it that way – the course of politics, and, as a Weasley man, he would soon number among them. Hermione did not wish to contradict her friends, and so she did not. In their myopic way, they meant well. She let them play at being naïve, while she continued to make plans for herself.

All such plans are, of course, contingent on the Muggle war. It is just Hermione’s luck that both sides of the world are wracked by chaos at the moment. The fact that the wizarding side can hardly move a finger to help the Muggle side does not surprise her anymore. She scans the headlines hungrily. The newspapers are two weeks old. So much could have happened in the meantime, but she will not stint her gratitude. This is more than she could have hoped for. Naples has been liberated by the Americans! That is good news, very good news indeed. She rushes eagerly to _The_ _Three Broomsticks_ where she can get out of the cold and have a glass or two of Firewhisky to celebrate. 

This being the first Hogsmeade outing of the semester, she anticipates that most students and teachers will be busy shopping for supplies. She is not incorrect. The inn is half empty when she arrives. She asks Madam Goshawk if she’s got any kidney pie left and the innkeeper smiles brightly because very few people submit themselves to the terror of her cooking, but Hermione Granger is a nice young woman who will eat just about anything. Madam Goshawk likes her very much. Hermione orders two shots of Firewhisky and rum-spiced tea. Yes, she will have a very nice afternoon of reading and quiet celebrating. She will also enjoy writing a thank you note to Medea.

She’s slightly undecided for a moment as she looks about. Professors are usually expected to retreat upstairs, but there are also tables reserved for them on the ground floor. The students usually sit to the front of the room, next to the windows. Hermione finally chooses a corner table in the back, concealed by a wooden beam.

Madam Goshawk sends two floating glasses filled with amber liquid her way. Blue and white flames dance on the honeyed surface of each glass. Hermione salutes the old matron with glee. She takes very unladylike pride in her ability to down two shots of Firewhisky in one breath. And so she does. Naples has been freed, after all. The Allies are making progress. Her throat burns and scalds, but she is instantly filled with courage and boldness and hope. She’s almost tempted to order a third. She wipes her mouth and licks her thumb in equally unladylike fashion. And slowly realizes, as she reaches for a paper napkin, that she is being watched. Even outside Hogwarts, the feeling follows her. A familiar feeling, with a name attached to it.

She casts her eye around the room, casually. It’s not hard to spot him. Not hard at all. He must have come in when she did not see him.

Tom Riddle is sitting diagonally from her at a well-lit table by the window. He has his arm draped elegantly on the back of his chair, body leaning towards a young girl sitting next to him. Though Hermione cannot see her face, it is clear the girl is delighted and awed by his company. She seems to hang onto his every word.

He is, of course, not looking in Hermione’s direction at all, even though she is in his line of sight.

Why would he?

He is obviously in the middle of telling the girl a story. Two other boys walk up to the table with tankards of Butterbeer, but do so quietly, so as not to interrupt.

Hermione feels rather foolish.

Perhaps her work in the library has made her more attuned to the students’ presence, especially his. Perhaps she merely sensed his arrival. And yet, she would bet quite a few galleons that he _had_ seen her knock back those two glasses of Firewhisky. She wonders, briefly, what he made of that.

Hermione shifts her chair behind the wooden beam and opens one of the newspapers, effectively barricading herself behind it. Let him watch her now.

* * *

It is no fault of hers that the reports are so captivating. Some of the best writing is done during wartime. In another life, she might have become a war journalist, following in the footsteps of Martha Gellhorn whom she admires a great deal, but alas, fate has made her a witch, and she has to make peace with that.

She is so caught up in a detailed narrative about Rommel – popularly dubbed the Desert Fox - and his complicated retreats on the coast of Libya that she fails to notice the proverbial peeping Tom.

He is clearly reading the back of her paper.

When Hermione finally looks up, he does not even have the decency to find a good excuse.

Hands in his pocket, Tom smiles appealingly. “Good afternoon, Madam Granger. I hope I am not disturbing you. I was wondering if I could borrow one of your newspapers. They look like _very_ gripping reading.”

Hermione blinks. _How dare he,_ she thinks, and yet is almost impressed by his daring.

“I do not believe they’d interest you very much, Mr. Riddle.”

“On the contrary, I find the Muggle war quite fascinating.”

Hermione raises one eyebrow. “Do you, indeed?”

He nods eagerly. “I have never read a more senseless account than that of Stalingrad last year. The butchery alone was unparalleled.”

Hermione raises the second eyebrow now. “You’ve read about _that_?”

He nods again. “Muggles are certainly talented at the art of destruction. They know how to kill, and kill well. But it only underlines our superiority as wizards and witches. _We_ would never act quite so barbaric, I like to think.”

Hermione’s mouth quirks up almost against her will. “Barbarism can take the form of clean hands too, Mr. Riddle.”

His eyes flash with something like surprise. He lowers his head humbly, hands behind his back. “Indeed. You make a very astute point.”

Hermione looks down at the papers. “But yes,” she admits,” the butchery _was_ unparalleled.”

It feels quite bizarre to talk of such morbid things in a cheery pub that has been visited by no wartime restrictions, where the adults and children consider the Muggle war to be a remote aberration. 

_They know how to kill, and kill well._

She shivers.

Her eyes fall on the table by the window, where his fellow Slytherins are waiting for him.

“Isn’t it quite rude to read the newspaper in the company of your friends?”

Tom smiles. “You are right again, Madam Granger. May I borrow it now and return it to you tomorrow afternoon? I shall find you at the library, of course.” 

Oh, he is a devious one, indeed.

But the alcohol is no longer warming the blood in her veins. Suddenly, she is quite sober. She ought to be heading back to Hogwarts and she does not want him shadowing her path. She has the absurd feeling that, unless she gives him the paper, he shall do exactly that.

How strange and foolish – to be at the mercy of a seventeen-year old.

“You may,” she says, pushing one of the papers forward.

He bows and takes it, rolling it up and tucking it under his arm.

She waits for him and his party to leave first, before she pays her goodbyes to Madam Goshawk and begins the trek up the hill to the school.

* * *

He makes good on his promise. The next day being a Sunday after a Hogsmeade outing, there is almost no one haunting the halls of the library, except for him of course.

The paper looks almost ironed, pressed and lined perfectly, not a mark or wrinkle on it. It even smells, faintly, of spearmint.

Hermione slides it quickly under her desk, as if it were contraband, which in a sense, it is.

“Thank you for a most edifying read. I am quite famished for news of the outside world. Hogwarts can feel very large and yet very small, don’t you think?”

Hermione shrugs noncommittally. “It certainly depends on one’s perspective. Shall you occupy a table, Mr. Riddle?”

He does not seem to mind being cut off. He smiles in that artless, yet totally contrived way that never fails to annoy her, and he calmly retreats to one of his regular desks.

For the next few hours, Hermione keeps busy with her own reading and indexing, opting to eschew patrolling in order to sort through a catalogue of Ancient Runes books. Time catches up with her. Sunday being a shorter day, the library closes at six. It is two minutes to six before she realizes she must make the announcement. Touching her wand to her throat, she makes her voice heard throughout the library.

A few Fifth Year stragglers bound past her desk with sleepy faces. A Seventh Year Hufflepuff walks out with a disgruntled gait.

Hermione heaves a sigh. Tom Riddle is not among them. He must still be at his desk.

She marches towards his corner, determined to kick him out without a fuss.

She finds him with his head bent over his books, a ringlet of hair artfully falling over the page.

“Though you deplore the state of your Common Room, Mr. Riddle, I am afraid I must ask you to retire to it, because the library is closing.”

Tom doesn’t look up. “Just a moment, I am finishing a sentence.”

Hermione frowns. She folds her arms over her chest. “You may finish the sentence next time, if you please.”

Her crisp tone makes him pause, quill in hand. “But what if I forget?”

“Then perhaps it is not a sentence worth setting down.”

He looks up at this remark and smirks. “I have a feeling you would be a much better judge of my essays than my Professors, Madam.”

Hermione lifts her chin. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Riddle. Now, do hasten to –”

“It is certainly not flattery, but truthful observation,” he says, rising diligently and gathering his parchments. “I believe you are far more qualified than many of them.”

She knows what she _ought_ to do. She _ought_ to put him in his place in a manner befitting her station. But, as mentioned previously, her temper is never quite exemplary.

“And _which_ Professors do you believe lack sufficient qualification, Mr. Riddle?”

Tom surprises her by chuckling. “Oh, I would never tell.”

This is a funny little joke to him, is it? She has a mind to tell his Head of House, because she has a feeling Professor Slughorn is on the list of teachers he deems substandard.

“I would keep such idle thoughts to yourself, Mr. Riddle,” she responds archly.

“Of course, I would never dream of speaking about it with anyone else.”

Hermione knows what he means. _This is just between the two of us._ She frowns. “If you are _quite_ finished –”

“Ah yes, how thoughtless of me. What sort of example am I setting as a Head Boy with my tardiness?” he drawls, angling the strap of his book bag over his shoulder. “I am sure you were a much more responsible Head Girl.”

Hermione straightens her back. “You’re right that I am never tardy, but I was never Head Girl.”

He mimes surprise. “Oh but – but how is that _possible_? You must have been the most accomplished student in your year. That is what Professor Slughorn intimates. And I am sure Professor Dumbledore would agree.”

Hermione’s eyes flash. So, he’s asked about her? Slughorn would happily loosen his tongue at such inquiries, since he dotes on Riddle and loves gossip, but Dumbledore would never offer such information. Does he know that she is on close terms with him? Dumbledore sometimes invites her to tea and sherbet in his office, it’s true, but those meetings are irregular, and surely Tom couldn’t have noticed –?

But then, of course he had.

“It is a travesty you were not made Head Girl,” he concludes angrily. His anger sounds genuine too. That is the problem with him; even if he is merely taunting her, he also sounds credibly outraged.

Hermione reins in her turbulent emotions. He must know _why_ she was not made Head Girl, _why_ the position went to a Pureblood instead. She opts for silence.

“Perhaps if we lived in a better world, things would be different,” Tom adds as an after-thought.

_How would that world look_ , she wants to ask. But that would only encourage him. 

She clears her throat. “I thank you for your impassioned speech, but I have no need for championing. You may take your leave, Mr. Riddle.”

Her cold goodbye does not seem to dampen his spirits. He saunters towards her, coming close enough that she is half tempted to step back, unwavering in her stance though she may be.

It does not help that he is quite tall. 

“I was only in my second year when you were in your last, Miss Granger. Had I been older, I might have championed harder. Good evening.”

He moves past her so seamlessly that she has little time to react, much less reply, but his words leave an indelible mark.

She watches the back of him, the shadows growing around him as he steps through the large open doors.

_Had I been older, I might have championed harder._

Hermione releases a breath.

She realizes he’s called her Miss Granger again and she forgot to correct him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very grateful for your reviews and kudos! I'm really enjoying writing this twisty story, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

It is very difficult to tell when Albus Dumbledore is troubled by any important matter. He usually does a very good job of hiding his worries behind a mask of serenity, but this evening he seems consumed by a particular subject which Hermione feels she will be made privy to.

The Transfiguration Professor has always been something of an avuncular figure, often lending an ear to _her_ troubles. But Hermione does not mind returning the favour. In fact, she feels very proud to be included in his circle of friends. She does not mind admitting how much she admires the man.

“May I speak in confidence, Miss Granger?” he asks, steepling his fingers.

Hermione sets down her cup of tea. The fire in the hearth crackles ominously. The dark window above it is spattered with icy rain.

“Of course, Sir.”

The older man nods. “I could ask you this favour without telling you what it is for, but I believe you ought to know. I must depart for London and the Ministry the day after tomorrow. The Wizengamot is holding a secret trial to condemn a friend of mine. I wish to save him, if I can. The Wizengamot banks on me and others like me not knowing about the trial, but if enough of us show up, we may at least delay the proceedings.”

Hermione has heard of quite a few such sham trials in the past year. “May I ask who the friend is, Sir?”

“Argos Lovegood.”

All colour drains from her face.

“Medea,” she blurts out without thinking.

“Yes, that would be her brother.”

Hermione only met Argos briefly one summer. He and Medea shared a devious sense of humour. She remembers his laughter when he told her what a lark their parents had had with their names.

She suddenly feels sick to her stomach. What if Medea got in trouble for sending her Muggle newspapers and they’re punishing her brother?

“What are the charges?” she asks, gripping the edge of the chair. 

“Oh, nothing truly substantial; something to do with one of his botanical periodicals. Some imaginary slander brought against the current government.”

 _Against Grindelwald, you mean,_ she thinks bitterly.

But she is a little relieved that she has not inadvertently caused them harm.

“Will you be able to stand up for him, Sir?”

“I will do my very best.”

Hermione is already composing the letter to Medea in her head when Dumbledore issues a small cough. “I can see your line of thinking, but I would not advise writing to your friend just yet.”

She looks up guiltily. “I –yes, you’re probably right.” Caution before all else. That is the motto which has guided her these past few years, but the mercurial Gryffindor inside of her often wishes to damn it all to hell.

“What will you need of me?” she asks instead.

“It’s only the matter of a few hours. The Seventh Years have a small written examination scheduled the day of the trial. I don’t wish to involve any other teacher, if I can help it. I would like to ask you to monitor them for me while I am away.”

“Of course. Consider it done, Sir.”

Albus gives her a faint smile. “Thank you, Miss Granger. I believe you shall do a better job than me, for I always tend to go easy on them. But you are far more vigilant. I hear that “Madam Granger” is almost as fearsome a librarian as Madam Pince before her.”

Hermione flushes slightly. “Hardly, Sir.”

“Oh, let them be the judge of that. Have any of the students given you trouble?”

 _Yes_ , she is tempted to say. _There is one insinuating boy…_

But can she truly say that he has given her “trouble”? Or does she simply have a _feeling_ about him? His behaviour is certainly too familiar and he has a tendency of being where he is not wanted, and his watchful eyes _do_ have an eerie quality, but –

She stops herself before she continues on this unfounded path. This is only wild conjecture at best.

“None so far, Sir,” she replies with an uneasy smile.

Their conversation returns to Argos and the trial and she puts the matter behind her.

* * *

The matter returns with alacrity on the day of the examination. She had not considered before, or perhaps had not _wanted_ to consider, that one of the students she was to monitor would be Tom Riddle.

Yet it cannot be avoided now. The chattering students are waiting inside. She steps into the classroom without pausing to master herself, knowing she would only make it worse if she tried. It is nonsense to feel nervous, anyhow.

She walks briskly between the desks, robes billowing in her wake as she flicks her wand at the windows, throwing open the heavy curtains. Light spills into the room like water.

She reaches the podium without stumbling.

“Good afternoon. Professor Dumbledore has been detained by an important errand, which is why I shall be sitting in for him today, but do not be deceived into thinking I shall be more lenient than him. I expect you to be on your best behaviour. If you do not adhere to the rules, you will be escorted out of the exam and deducted House Points. Are there any questions?”

Her eyes roam over the room, avoiding a particular spot in the middle row. Of course his eyes are trained on her like arrows, but she will not give him the satisfaction of looking his way.

The rest of the students shift in their seats, exchanging wary looks. Hermione is rather pleased. Fleamont and Septimus had often told her she was quite “bossy” when she wanted to be.

“Good. Then we shall begin.”

She doles out the instructions without a hitch, after which she taps her wand against the blackboard and the exam topics materialize in chalk outlines.

She flicks her wand again and a clean roll of parchment unfolds on every single desk.

She can hear a few mutters of surprise. Professor Dumbledore usually allowed them their own parchments since he could easily detect those which were charmed, but Hermione is far less patient with that sort of chicanery.

“You have an hour and thirty minutes. If I see anything on your desks except a quill and parchment I shall escort you out and deduct House Points. You may begin.”

She can see some unhappy glances cast her way. The Slytherins are downright scowling.

Well, not _all_ of them.

Tom Riddle is idly twirling his quill as he watches her. Judging from his playful smirk, he is not at all bothered by her stipulations.

Hermione turns her head away.

She begins to patrol the rows. Every student whose desk she walks past straightens their back in anticipation. She must admit; it’s not an unpleasant feeling, being a little feared.

Soon, the only sound in the room is the scratching of quills on parchment.

Though the weather outside is viciously cold, the sun pouring through the windows warms her back rather forcefully and the heavy robes weigh her down. Hermione regrets throwing the curtains open. She is loath to use a cooling charm in front of the students. She walks to the end of the room and shrugs her robes off, hanging them on a peg in the wall.

Hermione thinks nothing of it until she resumes her patrolling, but she soon comes to feel a different weight on her back, more forceful than the sun. She tugs at the sleeve of her black dress. There was nothing wrong with it this morning when she looked at herself in the mirror, and yet it feels entirely unsuitable now. Hermione has always been sensible about her appearance, precisely because she knows there is little outstanding in it. Her plainness has often come in use in settings where it was better not to draw attention. This floor-length dress is nothing special.

And yet – he won’t stop looking.

His head is seemingly bent on his paper, but she can feel his slanted gaze, the way it sneaks up on her, the way it brazenly lingers on the shape of her. She has never felt this sort of attention before, not like _this_ , and it unnerves her, because it is unnameable and vague and inappropriate and – after all, he’s just a teenage boy.

Perhaps that’s all it is, a teenage fancy.

Why she should feel so self-conscious is beyond her.

And yet, she cannot make herself indifferent to it.

She cannot avoid passing by his desk, either, seeing as he’s sitting at the end of a row. Every time she does, his head turns a little in her direction, following her figure. It is a very small yet perceptible movement. The fourth time she passes by his desk, Hermione decides she’s had enough. She lifts two fingers and a small volley of magic whips his jaw, forcing him to look forward.

He stills for a few moments, probably in disbelief.

When she walks past him again, she is gratified to find that he keeps his head forward.

Yet, if she expected him to be chastened, she is sorely disappointed. Reaching the front of the class, she casts her eyes over the room. Tom Riddle’s mouth is curved into a noticeable smile as he looks down at his parchment. He touches the spot where her magic clipped him – now faintly red – with something like tenderness.

Hermione grinds her jaw. He cannot _possibly_ have enjoyed that. He is only saving face.

But she will not show how much it bothers her. She calmly walks to the back of the class and positions herself against the wall, arms folded over her chest.

After a while, the tension leaves her shoulders. _Ridiculous_ , she thinks, though she’s not sure if she is referring to him or herself.

Time passes slowly. The quills keep scratching. Her mind wanders.

And then it snaps into attention. She had not noticed it before. This particular bent of magic, the tendrils shooting out intrusively. Legilimency. Where is it coming from?

The question is rather superfluous. _Of course_ it’s him.

She has been distracted by his staring; meanwhile, he’s been slowly reaching into his classmates’ heads.

The little bastard is cheating.

Hermione knows she cannot prove it, not without reliable witnesses, not without Professor Dumbledore, but she is not about to let him get away with it. 

She clears her throat.

“Mr. Riddle. I suggest you concern yourself with your own affairs and cease attempting to penetrate the minds of your colleagues, unless you wish to be escorted to Headmaster Dippet’s office.”

Everyone freezes in place.

The students look visibly shocked. There is a ripple of movement as they all turn to stare at Tom Riddle, who has lowered his quill.

At first, Hermione thinks they’re surprised he has attempted to enter their minds, but it soon becomes clear they are more amazed that an authority figure has admonished him. This seems to be a singular event. For a brief moment, she wonders whether this is stepping out of line, whether she might be putting her job at serious risk. But she cannot back down now. Her conviction is too strong, and, after all, Dumbledore did put her in charge of his class. 

“I was not aware I had done anything improper, Madam Granger,” Riddle speaks out, rising from his seat. “But I will happily come with you to Headmaster Dippet’s office if you wish to clear the matter.”

He may be good, but she’s not that bad herself.

“Actually, I believe in this case I shall leave the matter to Professor Dumbledore. I will inform him of what you have done and let him decide whether your examination stands or whether you must take it again. He will also decide whether to restore the _seventy_ House Points I have just deducted from Slytherin. I might also add, on this occasion, that you are _hardly_ setting a good example as Head Boy.”

The mention of Dumbledore unsettles his nonchalant attitude, but it’s her last remark that truly hits the mark. His lovely features sharpen and mottle.

“Thank you. I will submit myself to his judgement.”

Hermione nods. “You may sit down and continue.”

Yet, it seems futile to do so, and he knows it. He does not write another word. He simply waits for the exam to end.

Hermione can’t say she feels sorry.

The students watch her now with something like awed disbelief. She has done something quite unheard of; accused Hogwarts’ golden boy of being a cheat.

And yet, she can’t believe he _was_ cheating. There is no one in this room whose mind works quicker. The very fact that he is practicing Legilimency, even though it was scratched from the curriculum a long time ago, tells her he knows magic at a far more advanced level than his colleagues. He doesn’t need them. _They_ need him.

She is still thinking about it when the exam ends.

She gathers the students’ parchments and diligently seals them off, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye. He has slung his book bag over his shoulder and is shuffling towards the door with the rest of his classmates.

But something tells her he won’t leave. Not yet.

Indeed, even after everyone has filed out, he still lingers in the doorway, waiting for a signal.

She caves in.

“Mr. Riddle. A word.”

Hands in his pocket, he strolls back towards the middle of the room. He is effortlessly dignified, even though he has just been shamed in front of the entire classroom. How annoying.

“Why did you do it?” she asks him without preamble. “We both know you do not need to cheat, least of all from your colleagues.”

A strange little smile settles on his lips. “You are being quite hard on them, Madam Granger. They are not as stupid as that.”

Hermione narrows her eyes. “Very funny. What did you hope to accomplish? You couldn’t have been fishing for their responses.”

Tom cocks his head to the side. “Do you really want to know?”

Hermione knows what her answer should be. She ought to throw him out. But she cannot _stand_ not understanding something.

“Yes,” she says, unwisely.

He takes a step closer. “You are right, of course. I wasn’t fishing for their inane answers.”

A few moments pass in silence as they are at each other.

Hermione taps her foot impatiently. “Well then?”

“I was merely looking through their heads for any… interesting information, personal or otherwise,” he continues casually, as if discussing a particularly boring game of Quidditch. “It is precisely when one part of the mind is deeply focused on a particular subject that other submerged areas become rife for exploration. An exam seemed like a good occasion. I was not hurting them, I assure you.”

Hermione feels gooseflesh on the back of her neck.

He shouldn’t be telling her this.

And yet, her gears turn furiously.

“That’s – that’s from Vanbolt and Kurtz, isn’t it? Their theory on the psyche and the effects of mind-reading?”

His eyes brighten. “You’ve heard of it.”

Hermione frowns. “ _You_ shouldn’t have. Vanbolt and Kurtz’s work has been disqualified on account of their use and citation of Muggle studies.”

Tom blinks innocently. “Oh…I had no idea. How unfortunate. Still, some of those Muggle scholars are not entirely useless, are they?”

Hermione watches him intently. “I thought you believed in the superiority of wizards. I recall you pointing out the Muggles’ barbarism to me.”

He seems quite unruffled by her argument. “Muggles may be deeply inferior, but it would be sheer _idiocy_ to ignore the knowledge they provide, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would not. Such opinions are not sanctioned anymore.”

He nods affably. “Yes, that’s exactly it. We live in uncertain times. That is why, you’ll agree, it’s useful to know a little bit about the people you sit next to.” He casts his eyes about the room.

“If you think that excuses your actions, you are _quite_ mistaken –”

“No, of course not. I am merely trying to explain myself. I ought to have known better. I truly regret my actions.”

Hermione knows he does not mean it. He is not repentant at all and never will be.

“I believe your only regret is that I have caught you,” she replies coolly.

His eyes glimmer with a strange intensity. His beautiful features ripple with a desire to become ugly. But he is, as always, self-contained.

“I am sorry you think so little of me, but I suppose I deserve it. Let me assure you I will not be making the mistake of underestimating you again, Madam Granger.”

Hermione fights a small shiver. That sounds very much like a promise he will keep.

“Please do accept my apologies,” he adds more contritely.

“It is Professor Dumbledore who must accept your apologies,” she reminds him, folding her arms.

“Certainly. But I hope you will not think too ill of me in the future. And I hope you will not tell the professor _everything_ we’ve discussed.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have told me,” she retorts.

Tom smiles obliquely. “I suppose I couldn’t help myself. I very rarely find people like you.”

“Like _me_?”

His eyes roam over her figure quite shamelessly. “Like-minded people.”

Hermione scowls. “Believe me, Mr. Riddle, you and I are _very_ different people.”

Tom lifts a hand to his cheek and touches the faint red mark she has given him. “I shall endeavour to remember that difference.”

His words are innocent enough, but his tone is anything but. Hermione swallows the dryness in her throat.

It is high time they stopped being alone in a classroom.

She flicks her wand and the door opens behind him.

“You can see yourself out, Mr. Riddle.”

* * *

Perhaps she ought to have expected some backlash from the students, since Tom seems to be their uncrowned king, but nothing can prepare her for what she hears the next evening in the library.

She is sorting out some shelves, taking out the tomes whose spines must be repaired and reinforced, when she overhears a particularly nasty conversation a row over.

A few Slytherins have gathered around Tom Riddle’s desk and are asking him if he’s “put the librarian in her place”.

“She can’t possibly be allowed to think that’s any way to talk to you, or any of us, for that matter,” Malfoy remarks.

“Hear, hear,” Mulciber agrees. “Besides, I don’t think she even _understands_ the art of Legilimency, much less be able to recognize it. She may read a lot of books, but that’s not enough to know things. Someone of her birth ought to know her limits.”

Hermione releases a slow breath.

Of course, they are all very much aware she is only a few feet away. In fact, they’d only need to raise their heads a little to see her. They must want her to hear. They must want her to get angry and speak out of turn. But most of all, they must want her to feel humiliated.

No. She won’t call them out on it. She won’t hex them into oblivion, even though she could do it with her eyes closed. She won’t storm off in a fury.

She won’t do any of those things. She won’t give them the satisfaction. She will turn herself to steel before she gives in. 

A Fifth Year student suddenly chimes in, eager to impress. “What can you expect from a sorry little Mudblood? I assume she was hired out of pity. Hogwarts is really coming to rot if we allow someone like her to pollute the school halls.”

Hermione almost lets a tome fall. No, she no longer flinches at the slur. What truly _rankles_ is that the idiot is not entirely incorrect. As much as Albus Dumbledore values her intellect, she is here on his mercy.

She hears Riddle’s melodious peal of laughter. He is thoroughly delighted by their barrage of insults. He must feel quite vindicated among his bullish peers.

Hermione’s shoulders sag. So much for championing her. Not that she ever believed him.

She exhales angrily and continues to pick out the damaged tomes from the shelves.

It’s only when she swallows that she realizes how hard she has been gritting her teeth, because she can nearly taste blood.

* * *

Hermione does not get a chance to speak properly to Professor Dumblefore in the coming days because he is exceedingly busy with preparing Argos Lovegood’s case. She gathered from the few words exchanged at meals that, though he managed to delay his sentencing, there is going to be a second hearing where the prosecution is prepared to levy heavier charges.

Hermione knows this is not the time to bring up Tom Riddle. She merely informs Dumbledore that he tried to cheat using Legilimency, which he takes rather in stride, almost as if having expected such a thing from him. Perhaps Dumbledore knows Riddle’s ways better than she does. It would explain why he is not as overly fond of him as the rest of his teachers. She makes a promise to herself that she will have a more serious discussion about him when Argos’ case is resolved – _if_ it is resolved.

In the meantime, she does her best to comfort Medea, though their letters always have to be carefully-worded. Hermione wishes they could meet in person, if only for half an hour, but they know that anything Medea did now would reflect poorly on her brother.

She is so caught up in the affair that Halloween almost comes as a surprise. She can’t see how anyone _could_ be in the mood for celebrating, but she forces herself to attend the feast. She has always loved the Great Hall at Halloween: the extravagant fiery streamers and floating pumpkin heads, the gleaming black cauldrons full of sugary sweets, the House Ghosts all riding across the tables and knocking about unrestrained, Peeves singing bawdy songs about unicorns mating with pixies. All of it used to put a smile on her face. Now, she smiles out of habit and chews on a pumpkin pasty as if it were ash in her mouth. Making conversation is a chore, but she gets Professor Beery going on the topic of wiggentree bark and the very potent wine which can be extracted from it and he is happy to natter away all evening. 

Halfway through the feast, there is some commotion at the Slytherin table – something to do with the Bloody Baron passing through a student – but Hermione refuses to look. She’s happy to ignore that table for as long as she can.

Towards the end of the feast she considers retiring early, when a small note lands next to her plate. She unfolds it cautiously. Madam Erwin, the school matron, is summoning her to the Hospital Wing. Hermione blinks in astonishment. Making her excuses to Professor Beery, she leaves through a door behind the High Table, wondering what could have possibly happened to involve her.

* * *

“I couldn’t get him to quiet down. He has been asking for you since he arrived. The fever has made him quite hysterical, but he will be himself in no time,” Madam Erwin explains as she ushers Hermione inside the ward.

“But what has happened to him exactly?”

“Oh, the poor boy almost choked on his swollen tongue. His throat was all closed up and he was as hot as coals. It looked to me like an allergic reaction, though I have not identified the allergen yet. It’s possible it could be some sort of respiratory hex, but I have traced no wand magic in it. Apparently the Bloody Baron was passing through him when it happened, so I have a good hunch it was that awful man playing his usual tricks. I shall have to talk to Headmaster Dippet about that ghost. He cannot be placing students in danger. It was a lucky thing his friends brought him here in time.”

Hermione frowns. She cannot imagine the Bloody Baron, however bloody, being inclined to choking students to death.

“Lucky indeed…yet I can’t see why he would call for me.”

“I’ve tried to ask him why he requires your presence so urgently, but all he could tell me – and it was rather incoherent, mind you – was that he had not managed to return some _books_ to the library. I cannot sedate him in his condition, nor do I wish to tamper with the serum I have administered him, so I was thinking you could give him some peace of mind and tell him not to worry about those books. Here, let me take you to his bed. You won’t mind if I leave you with him? There are four more children I have to look after. _Everyone_ overeats on Halloween.”

Madam Erwin walks her to the curtained bed, happy to be relieved of this task, and dashes off to her other patients.

Hermione parts the curtains.

The sickly boy propped up on the pillows looks slightly purple. He is _gulping_ the air, rather than breathing it.

“Madam G-Granger!” he exclaims with sweeping relief, eyes wide and tearful. “Oh, I thought you wouldn’t c-come!”

It takes her a moment to recognize him. He is the Fifth Year boy who called her a Mudblood in the library. 

“I’m D-Darius Avery.” He inhales sharply. “I don’t know if you know m-me.”

“I do know you, Mr. Avery,” she replies, staring down at him in pity and revulsion. “Madam Erwin said you wanted to speak to me about some books.”

He shakes his head miserably.

“It’s not that. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said t-that word about you. I’m v-very sorry.”

He gulps and shivers under the blanket.

Hermione looks away, feeling uncomfortable. “Let’s consider it an unfortunate incident and move past it, Mr. Avery. You ought to be resting –”

“B-But _please_ , will you tell him I’ve said sorry? Will you tell him I _really_ mean it? B-because I do.”

_Him._

Hermione stares at the shaking Avery. “Tell who?”

“You know who.”

Yes, she does know. She supposes she knew the moment she saw Avery’s terrified face.

“I will,” she promises, since nothing else will quiet the boy.

Hermione pulls the curtain behind her. Her legs are shaking and her heart is beating like a wild drum.

 _Fuck_ , she thinks for the first time since having returned to Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope my updating streak continues. I just feel very compelled to write this story; it has taken over my thoughts.  
> Thank you so much for your reviews and encouragement so far! This chapter may feel a little odd, but I hope you'll enjoy it!  
> (some of you have asked me if there will be Tom Riddle POV chapter(s) and yes, there will be, at some point)

November brings with it early snow. The courtyards are latticed with ice and sleet, the bridges and walkways covered in grandfatherly hoarfrost. The evergreens look ghostly in the window. Winter is extending her fingers everywhere.

Hermione sits in her armchair with her knees tucked to her chest. The large dressing gown she has bundled around her trails to the floor in burgundy folds. The cheerful colour does little to dispel her dark thoughts. Perhaps it was a mistake, coming back to Hogwarts.

She stares into the dregs of her tea mug. She remembers those wasteful Divination classes where she was told that the accidental arrangement of leaves and the arbitrary scattering of herb seeds foretold a particularly devastating fate. Madam Vablatsky had once memorably looked into her cup and “seen” a large serpent which appeared to be devouring men’s very souls. Her conclusion, naturally, had been that Hermione would either be a victim of the beast’s, or become the beast herself, unless she opened her mind to the possibilities of the future. In all fairness, Hermione _had_ been quite dismissive of her class, so perhaps the woman was exacting some small revenge.

Looking into the mug now, Hermione laughs an ugly laugh. All she can see is little green and black dots of nothingness. Perhaps they signify the bombs falling over London. Perhaps they are the ant-like soldiers dying on the beaches. Or perhaps the dots predict that there will be caviar at breakfast. Hogwarts eats well in comparison to other places.

If she’s lucky, Professor Dumbledore will make an appearance at the table, but she does not feel very hopeful. The past week has seen him leave Hogwarts more than once and the evenings are occupied with Argos’ case, which has now extended to the entire Lovegood family. Medea is being held under house arrest, though Dumbledore seems to think this is only a punitive measure to ensure that the brother talks. Hermione dreads to think of what may come next. She knows this is not the right time to bring up Tom Riddle. It may never be the right time. There are dangerous young men everywhere in the world. Riddle just happens to live in close vicinity. And he _is_ dangerous and strange and obsessive. But he is still a teenage boy. It would be a good thing if he stayed at Hogwarts forever, if his ugly tendencies were kept in check by the school, but he will soon be released upon the unsuspecting world, and that is a far more troubling prospect.

 _He’ll make an excellent career in government, if nothing else_ , she thinks sourly.

But as long as he is here, she realizes he will keep trying to get under her skin. Ignoring him is probably unwise, confronting him more so. She cannot quite guess at his behaviour. He wishes to impress and intimidate her in equal amount. He does not tell his friends in public not to call her names, but he punishes them in secret. Hermione has noticed that ever since Avery’s incident, the Slytherins who come to the library are always politely reserved. They lower their eyes in her presence. If they mutter behind her back, they make sure not to do it within hearing distance. They still gossip and scorn those they consider beneath their worth, but there is no mention of her any longer. As if she has passed beyond their sphere of interest.

And yet, nothing can be laid at Riddle’s door. He covers his tracks in all things, it seems. It must have been a shock when she had reprimanded him in front of the entire class, because he was not used to getting caught. He must have been quite angry. But anger alone does not motivate him. He is hungry for power, and hungry for other things she does not wish to consider.

The darkness of morning has lightened into a soft, milky grey. Hermione stares longingly at her bed. She’d like to sink into it and only wake when everyone else has already died. She pictures walking through the ruins of Hogwarts by herself, the only living thing, wiping the magic clean off it, stashing it in her charmed handbag. 

She is suddenly jolted by the imagery. How perfectly _awful_. Why should she contemplate something so morbid?

And yet, the thought turns around inside her head all morning long.

* * *

In the afternoon, Riddle appears before her desk with another pass from Professor Slughorn. He is the picture of serenity as he gives her a small, decorous smile.

Hermione examines his slip without so much as a greeting.

“I’m afraid Professor Slughorn’s signature is not clear enough. He must have given you the note in haste, because he has forgotten to proof it against forgery,” she tells him coolly, casting back the piece of paper.

Tom tilts his head to the side. “Oh, I believe he does not always bother to do that because he trusts me implicitly.”

“While I do not doubt the quality of your relationship, you must still give me a proper pass to the Restricted Section.”

She can see the irritation in the twitch of his lips, but his eyes are full of provocation. He looks at her as if he were a cat eyeing a bird perched on the branch above.

“Then I shall return to Professor Slughorn and ask him for a new slip, though I imagine he won’t be pleased to be troubled a second time.”

Hermione shrugs her shoulders pertly. “I suppose that is entirely _your_ problem, Mr. Riddle.”

He parts his lips for a moment. But then he resumes his smile, a coiling little parenthesis, the smile of a whip. “I suppose it is.”

* * *

Hermione does not expect to see him for the rest of the day. She is thinking about Medea’s last letter, squatting over a shelf, trying to remove the charms off two books which have become entangled (as magical books sometimes do), when she senses a presence behind her.

She stands on her haunches, breathing out. “You may come forward, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom turns the corner of the nearest bookshelf.

“I did not wish to interrupt you, Madam Granger.”

Hermione rises to her feet, holding the shelf for support. “I hope you have not been standing there, waiting for me.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, taking a step closer.

_Of course you don’t._

“I have brought you a fresh pass from Professor Slughorn.”

Hermione eyes him carefully. “The library will soon be closing. It is too late to go into the Restricted Section. You’ll have to come back some other time.”

“Oh, I know _that_. I only wanted you to verify that this pass is legitimate.”

He holds out the slip of paper. 

Hermione reaches out and takes it. His forefinger brushes against her forefinger, quite by design.

Hermione suppresses the small jolt that rushes down her spine. She runs her wand across the piece of paper.

“It is legitimate,” she confirms, slightly disappointed.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” he says with a smile. “I want to assure you that, despite my performance during the exam, I strive to be fair in my dealings.”

His little speech sounds so unconvincing to her ears that she cannot help but snort. “You must not strive very hard.”

Tom shrugs. “We are all prone to making mistakes from time to time.”

“Entering someone’s mind is _quite_ a mistake to make.”

He lowers his eyes. “I don’t believe I was doing much harm.”

Hermione knows she should end the conversation here, but this unfathomable game between them demands that she respond. 

“Your colleagues certainly have not challenged you on the matter. You have corralled them into perfect submission.”

He smiles with half his mouth. “You give me too much credit. I can barely keep them civilized, half the time. They have some very appalling tendencies, for wizards.”

Hermione folds her arms. “I expect some of those tendencies are more easily fostered than curbed.”

“I hope you are not inferring that I am doing the former. As Head Boy, I do my best to improve their manners.”

“Then perhaps you should improve _your_ manners to help your cause,” she replies tartly.

Tom takes another step forward, leaning his arm against one of the shelves. “ _My_ manners? Have I offended you?”

Hermione takes a step back. She feels the hardness of wood behind her back. She realizes she is more or less trapped in this corner with him, for he has skillfully blocked her exit. But she does not feel afraid. She has her wand with her, and even without it, she’s confident she could knock him flat. She almost _yearns_ for an opening. Her fingers twitch around the wand impatiently. She hasn’t set loose in such a long time, always needing to be careful. She misses putting everything into a curse and watching it land. 

He must see something of these dangerous thoughts in her eyes, because his own eyes darken and he releases a soft breath, waiting for her charge.

She clears her throat. “What happened to Mr. Avery certainly offended me. The boy told me to tell you personally how _sorry_ he was. I do not appreciate being on the receiving end of such distasteful messages.”

Tom affects surprise. “He must have told you to tell me because he knows how much I _respect_ you and how much I _dislike_ discourteous behaviour.”

Hermione scoffs. “You are a more sophisticated bully, Mr. Riddle, I’ll give you that. But you are _still_ a bully. You simply hide it better.”

Tom stares at her beneath lowered eyelashes. “A pity you should think so, for I am most sincere in my desire to be your friend.”

“Sincerity aside, you are a student, and as such, can never be a friend,” she points out coolly.

Tom considers her for a long moment. “Yes, you’re right. Perhaps friendship is too narrow a term for what we might be.”

He is close enough now that his breath falls on her hair, disturbing a few locks which have escaped her knot.

Hermione presses the tip of her wand into his chest. “Whatever delusions you harbour, you must keep them to yourself. I want little to do with you outside my professional duties.”

He sketches a smile. “And yet, I believe we could help each other.”

“I _do not_.”

“Not yet, but if you let me show you -”

“I’d rather you showed yourself out instead.”

Tom chuckles. “I must admit, no one has denied me before. Not like this, not like you.” His eyes fall to her lips. “It is a _singular_ experience.”

“You will get past it, I’m sure,” she drawls, retreating into sarcasm. 

“No… I don’t think I will. I still think about the mark you gave me.” He lifts a hand to her cheek, showing her the spot where she hurt him, but he does not touch her.

Hermione watches the movement of his hand. She does not flinch.

"No one knows you did it, except me. I suppose I _could_ tell Professor Slughorn about it...but I won't."

Hermione hates the way her breath hitches in her throat. "Why not?" 

"Because I don't want anyone else to know. I want to keep it to myself." His fingers dance in the air, almost touching the side of her throat. "I can still feel your magic on my skin, you know. It is _quite_ distracting."

She tightens her grip on the wand. She could release herself from this moment. She knows she could. But – she’s curious.

At night, especially,” he murmurs, bending his head. “I lie awake in bed and relive the moment. It ought to be humiliating. I should want to crush your skull, and yet it thrills me like nothing else. I almost want you to do it again. Don’t _you_ want to do it again?”

Hermione swallows thickly. Yes. Yes, she wants to. She’d gladly do it again. She’d _gladly_ hurt him, which –

Which isn’t right.

It’s what he wants: for her to lose control.

She lowers her wand and gives him a scathing look.

“Frankly, Mr. Riddle, you are not worth the bother. The library has closed for the evening.”

Tom takes a step back. His eyes flash almost red with fury. He grips the shelf above him. His knuckles are white from the effort.

He smarts from the rebuff and yet - yet, he is also captivated by her continued dismissals. 

He straightens himself. “I see. I don’t suppose you’d come with me to Slughorn’s Christmas party, then.”

“ _What_?”

She is so taken aback by the sudden shift in topic that she almost loses her footing. 

“No, I guess not. Students and staff must not mingle,” he drones, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But you _will_ be there, won’t you?”

“I - I certainly _won't_. I have no reason to be. Professor Slughorn’s parties are private.”

Tom Riddle smiles a gratified smile. “I know. I shall see you there, Madam Granger.”

He turns on his heels without another word. She listens to his receding footsteps for a long time.

* * *

Hermione cannot bear the tension coiling in her stomach. She twists and turns between the covers, trying to push away the images that haunt her, the smoking ruins of Hogwarts, the acrid smell of sweat in crowded courtrooms, the thud of dungeon cells, the scraping of quills on parchment, the slant of his mouth as he asks her if she wants to do it again. She reaches between her legs with trembling fingers and touches herself in shame.

_I should want to crush your skull._

She comes so fast she nearly keens. In fact, she has to bury her head in the pillow and bite. 

* * *

The following morning, a small green envelope with her name on it awaits her at the breakfast table. A few seats down, Professor Slughorn beams and waves at her, trying to catch her eye.

“I shall expect you there, _Hermione_!” he cries out, wagging a finger. “And you aren’t allowed to say no.”

Hermione sinks into her chair with a blush. Never mind that the man is so tactless that he has announced himself to the whole table; he’s also called her by her first name, as if they were anything like friends. She feels thoroughly mortified.

This time, however, she doesn’t avoid looking at the Slytherin table.

Tom is resting his chin in the palm of his hand. She can see the smile playing on his lips. He raises his goblet in amicable fashion.

Hermione twists the envelope between her fingers. She’d like nothing better than to set it on fire. And him, if possible.

She fishes out a book from her handbag and buries her head in it, not reading a single word.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy spring, everyone! Thank you for all your reviews and kudos too! I hope you like this chapter! (I think next chapter will be a Tom POV, stay tuned!)

Hermione had never been invited to a Slug Club meeting as a student. Despite her excellent academic credentials, she had never seemed like a valuable asset to Professor Slughorn before. But as she was now the resident librarian and Dumbledore’s protégée, Slughorn was all too happy for an occasion to pick her brains. Riddle must not have had a very hard time planting the idea. 

Still, she is quite taken aback by Slughorn’s friendliness the minute she steps through the entrance of his office.

“Miss Granger! Come in, _do_ come in! I have been expecting you!” his reedy voice greets her. His eyes are crinkled in a not very sincere smile. He smells of some very noxious, sweet cologne and tobacco. “So good of you to join us.”

“Well, I –”

It’s almost on the tip of her tongue. _It’s not as if I could have said no._

The whole thing had been more or less forced upon her. There was no polite way of rejecting another teacher’s invitation.

“I thank you for inviting me,” she says instead, shaking his hand. Slughorn quickly takes hold of her fingers and raises them to her lips.

Hermione forces herself not to flinch. When he releases her hand she tries not to wipe it against her dress.

“What do you think of my little soiree? Are the decorations to your liking?” he asks, ushering her inside.

Hermione takes it all in. The rooms have been altered for the party. Large and sumptuous green draperies hang across the beams, and twinkling lights trail down from the ceiling in an imitation of snow. House elves carry floating trays of Christmas-themed hors d’oeuvres and a few reindeer-shaped tables have been set up for his guests around the room, all festooned and garlanded in Christmas regalia. But the main event, he tells her, will be a lavish dinner of seven courses which is to take place in the adjoining drawing room.

“It’s all quite lovely,” she murmurs in appreciation, although she finds the colors garish and the music dreary. A string quartet of self-playing instruments has been arranged in a corner. The whole thing looks vaguely sinister.

“It’s a pity Albus couldn’t be here to enjoy it with us. Still busy with that case, is he?”

“Oh…yes, I’m afraid.”

“Well, perhaps he will pop in later. I have it on good authority that he is in the castle tonight,” he says with an oily wink. “Perhaps we’ll go fetch him together, entice him with a piece of cake, eh?”

Hermione is spared having to answer such a preposterous suggestion by the arrival of a stout, bespectacled man at Slughorn’s side. He wants to know when dinner shall be served.

“Ah, Miss Granger, I’d like you to meet my good friend and celebrated author, Eldred Worple, a specialist on vampires. You may have heard of him.”

Eldred bows his head and sketches an impatient smile in her direction. He is clearly more concerned about dinner.

“I have,” she nods. “I have read your book. _Blood Brothers: My Life Among the Vampires_ , was it?”

Worple stares at her with a befuddled expression.

“Oh, I did not expect to meet a fan. How positively charming,” he simpers, looking her up and down, as if she were one of the vampires he’s wont to study.

“Well…I don’t know about _fan_ , but I found your account very interesting, if rather personal.”

“Whatever do you mean by _personal_?”

Hermione balks. “I…only that it’s very _particular_. Surely, you meant it less as a scientific treatise than a personal diary?”

“That was on purpose. A great author can do both, you know,” Worple explains with a raised finger. Hermione notes how hairy his knuckles are. “What I’ve done is, I have managed to objectively analyze a particular strand of vampirism while bonding with my subjects and humanizing them, you’ll agree.”

Hermione is on the verge of telling him that giving his subjects names like _Sanguini_ , _Mortellini_ , and _Iugulum_ (the Latin for jugular) does not really make them more three-dimensional, but she is once again spared having to argue the matter with him when more guests converge on Slughorn, wanting his opinion. Hermione manages to slip away between introductions.

The rooms are surprisingly packed. Slughorn has managed to invite quite a few people outside of school, which makes Hermione think longingly of Medea and Fleamont and Septimus. There is only one other professor in attendance; Professor Saracen who teaches Astronomy and who is trying to chat up a shapely-looking redhead, a singer by profession, who has promised to sing a special number for Horace after dinner. There are also a number of students flitting about, most of them Slytherins, but a few from other Houses as well, all notable children from notable families. Most of them nod at her politely in acknowledgement and murmurs of “Madam Granger” echo in her wake as she makes her way to the buffet. She must admit it is nice to see the Slytherin brats acting nice around her, or as nice as they can be.

And, of course, there’s their de facto leader.

Tom Riddle, dressed in elegant, but simple dress-robes, is standing with his back to her, chatting up a Slytherin girl at a small table in the corner. She’s not the same girl he was charming in _The Three Broomsticks_ , but Hermione supposes he never lacks for admirers.

He appears not to have noticed her arrival, which works in her favour. Hermione pours herself some spiced wine into a cup and decides that she is going to do her best to avoid him all evening. 

“I wouldn’t drink any of the spiced wine, if I were you. I’m afraid Horace has spiked it with one of his party concoctions. He always wants his guests to feel nice and jolly.”

Hermione turns around.

The older man standing before her is dressed very soberly, the only extravagant item in his attire being a silver tie clip with a glittering diamond at one end. He smiles coolly, his expression narrow, despite his broad, toad-like face.

“Miss Granger, is it? Emilius Umbridge. How do you do?”

Hermione is quietly relieved that the man shakes her hand instead of kissing it.

“I’m afraid I have not made your acquaintance.”

“To be expected. I am a friend of Horace’s. I work for the Ministry, the not very glamorous Department of Magical Transportation.”

Hermione’s heart gives a lurch. A Ministry official, at Hogwarts, at this very party. And he seems to know her name. Usually, people were more wary of the officers in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but one couldn’t speak of _regular_ Ministry subordinates anymore. All of them answered to the new power, one way or another.

“Transportation?” she echoes mechanically. “I have always been fascinated by Portkeys.” A good rule of thumb is to fall back on platitudes. That is what she has always done when confronted with the so-called establishment.

“Indeed? Perhaps _you_ should be working in my Department,” he says with an unctuous smile. “But I suppose a cozy job at Hogwarts is the next best thing.”

Hermione does not miss the barbed insinuation there. This man must know about her blood status, since it’s no secret at Hogwarts.

He studies her closely.

Hermione knows she must speak. Silence can be deadly, in its own way.

“I’ve always been a bit of a bookworm,” she says, trying to sound casual. “When I found out about the opening, I knew I had to come back.”

“Ah, yes. Hogwarts _is_ that sort of place. One always wishes to return. I myself – well, I do miss the golden days in the Slytherin Common Room. Were you a Slytherin yourself?”

“Gryffindor, actually.”

“Well, I shan’t hold it against you,” he says with a fake titter. “All the Houses deserve credit and their professors too. The school has always been in perfectly good hands. I imagine you must be the youngest member on the staff.”

Hermione forces herself to smile. “Yes. I don’t mind it.”

“No, why would you? I don’t mind telling you, you look like a very self-possessed young lady. Mature for your age,” Umbridge remarks and his toady eyes gloss over her figure.

She swallows. “Thank you.”

“In fact, the staff would benefit from more new blood, if you ask me,” he adds, patting his chest and his silver pin.

“I suppose that is a suggestion for Headmaster Dippet.”

“Certainly, but Dippet himself might benefit from a holiday, brilliant man though he is. He has given _so_ many years to this school. I’m sure he’s grown softer with age. One cannot help it. But one needs a _firm_ hand when dealing with so many wizards and witches in one place, don’t you think?”

Hermione can’t help the small twitch of her eyebrows. “I thought you said the school has always been in perfectly good hands.”

Umbridge smacks his lips in annoyance. “Of course it has. I only meant that it must be rather difficult work. There was talk of Horace taking over the position last year. Or even Albus Dumbledore. But I think the latter is too busy with causes outside of Hogwarts, wouldn’t you say?”

Hermione knows there is some kind of trap laid behind these words, but she does not know how to avoid it exactly.

“Professor Dumbledore has prodigious energy for both curricular and extracurricular activities,” she replies, settling on a neutral response.

Umbridge rubs a finger across his chin. “Prodigious energy, yes. Who could doubt that, given his recent activities? But I know that he values you a great deal, Miss Granger.”

 _How do you know?_ she wants to ask. She’s almost tempted to take a page out of Riddle’s book and probe his mind a little.

Instead, she fortifies her own mental wards. She nods. “I value him equally.”

“Still… should Hogwarts ever become less than ideal, you might consider a job in the Ministry. We are always looking for fresh, young talent.”

The temptation to laugh is strong. _A job as what?_ she wants to ask. The few Muggleborns still working in the Ministry must be fearing for their welfare daily, but are unable to leave.

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you, Sir.”

“I hope you do. I’m sure your parents expect a more brilliant career for you than librarian.” 

The mention of her parents is what stops her breath. It could be just a passing remark, mere speculation. She, like most people, must have parents and those parents must expect great things for her. It does not mean that he _knows_ about them. And yet, she cannot move past the terror of the moment. Her tongue is heavy in her mouth. She stares at him, feeling the weight of all her secrets on her shoulders.

“Pardon the intrusion, Mr. Umbridge, Madam Granger.”

For once, Hermione is almost glad to hear the velvety voice behind her. 

Tom Riddle stands before them, hands behind his back, a courteous smile on his lips. He carries himself with total confidence, yet not so much as to appear insolent. “Professor Slughorn has been looking for you, Sir. He wishes to speak to you on the matter of some travel permits.”

The mention of Ministry business unsettles Umbridge. He does not like to talk shop, not if it’s under _his_ purview. He grunts, embarrassed, but he thanks the young man in front of him and he bows to Hermione with the same chilly smile, excusing himself for the need to leave.

Hermione releases a breath as she watches him go.

“I don’t suppose I am the only one glad to see the back of him,” Tom comments wryly, standing close to her. “Frightfully unpleasant man, isn’t he?”

Hermione takes a step back. She stares at him critically. “Mr. Riddle. I hope you have not come all the way here to tell me that.”

Tom chuckles. “No. I came because I saw that he was making you uncomfortable.”

“That is rather ironic, seeing as, were it not for you, I probably wouldn’t be at this party.”

She can see how it thrills him, her acknowledgement of his power over her on this occasion.

“In my defense,” he drawls, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I did not know that a Ministry man would be attending. I would have made sure you did not have to meet him.”

Hermione shakes her head. “I do believe you overestimate your influence.”

“And you underestimate your charm, _Madam_ Granger,” he replies, his voice low and thick with meaning. “I believe Umbridge approached you in part because you look more appealing than half the guests in this room. I hope you will not take offense in my saying so.”

Hermione feels warmth on the back of her neck. He is only looking at her face, but she feels his eyes travelling across her body, seeing it from all angles, the heavy woolen dress, her second best, concealing little from him.

“I tend to ignore your more ridiculous remarks. You should return to your companion, Mr. Riddle,” she says dryly, turning her back on him and stepping firmly away.

His eyes do not seem to leave her, even when he turns away himself.

* * *

The dinner is an elaborate, tedious affair. The food is too rich, the sauces too thick, the garnishes too exotic. Hermione chews on a golden piece of pineapple, since it seems like the only edible thing on her plate. She washes it all down with water. She would have liked to have a taste of the port, but she is not sure whether the wine was not also diluted with Slughorn’s festive potions. It is quite hard to stand the dining ordeal without some fortifying drink. She has had to make a last-minute dash and sit next to Eldred Worple, so as to avoid Emilius Umbridge, who had drawn the seat next to him as invitation. Now, Hermione has to listen to the slightly inebriated author explain to her why his book on vampires is a “serious” scientific inquiry, while Umbridge stares at her from across the table. He’s not the only one. Tom Riddle is also paying careful attention to the table conversation. From time to time he catches her eye. There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips as he stares at Worple. He must find the whole thing quite amusing.

Slughorn talks over all of them, issuing encouragements from time to time and repeating words like “Capital, dear fellow, capital!” until they lose all meaning. The atmosphere is gregarious and animated, but in a forceful way, because most people have drunk from Slughorn’s party stimulants and their euphoria is artificial. Saracen, for instance, is a clear victim. He’s given up on the vivacious singer who kept ignoring him, and now has turned his attentions on _her_.

“Did you know, Miss Granger - _Hermione_ ,” he starts boldly, forgetting all niceties, “that the best way to go star-gazing is to do it without any clothes on? There is a particular pagan magic in _nakedness_. I once tried it when I was looking at the Cassiopeia constellation and I tell you it was the most invigorating experience of my life –”

Hermione suppresses a laugh. “But surely, it must be too cold at this time of year.”

“Not if you’re in the right company,” he says, stretching his arm over the back of her chair and leaning forward. “There are many ways to keep warm.”

She can feel Riddle’s intense stare from across the table, but it is Umbridge who speaks up first.

“What sort of behaviour is this, Sir? You are speaking to a _lady_ , not the barkeep at _The Three Broomsticks_.”

Saracen pulls back his arm quickly, but Hermione is more discomfited by Umbridge.

She frowns. “I happen to know Madam Goshawk and she is a very respectable lady too, Sir.”

The Ministry official issues a small scoff. “Why, certainly, Miss Granger, but you must allow for the differences in station and circumstance.”

“I do not see how she and I are different in either,” Hermione protests.

Umbridge eyes her carefully. “You cannot mean that. Hierarchies are in place for a reason.”

Ah, there it is. This is less about Madam Goshawk’s profession and more about the fact that she is a Half-Blood. She had heard that some wizards were more inclined to tolerate Muggleborns and be prejudiced against Half-Bloods because of the great “degradation” of the Pureblood line. Not that any of it made sense. Grindelwald’s rhetoric was rife with the idea that the wizarding community was slowly shrinking, that there were fewer of “us” than there were of “them”. Muggleborns came in direct contradiction with this idea, which is why he could not stand them. Not to mention, many of those Muggleborns would have _something_ to say if Grindelwald planned a war against their Muggle loved ones.

“I usually mean what I say,” she replies calmly, looking directly at Umbridge, even though her nails are digging into the flesh of her palms.

“I was only proposing an innocent pastime, nothing more,” Saracen intercedes, in a drunken attempt to mollify. “And anyway, the only one who would get naked is _me_ -”

It is, thankfully, at this moment that the redheaded singer rises from her seat and announces to the party her first number of the evening. Chairs are scraped back and turned in her direction and Hermione takes this felicitous occasion to excuse herself from the table.

* * *

She has always been fond of alcoves and window seats. There have been many times when she retreated behind a well-positioned curtain or screen, curled up with a book. The beginning of _Jane Eyre_ has always held a special place in her heart because of it. It is no wonder that she finds solace behind one of the heavy green draperies. She sits down on the cold stone and stares out of the small window at the dark-green lake beyond. Water swirls in complicated patterns across the pane, but little else seems to be moving.

This is how Tom finds her.

“I would not abscond for too long if I were you, Madam Granger.”

His soft voice barely startles her. It seems to melt into the quiet of her hiding place.

Hermione looks up at him. Suddenly, she is too tired to get up.

“Have they noticed my absence already and sent you after me?”

“Not quite. They’ve started dancing, actually. I came to find you on my own. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“ _Did_ you?” she asks, none too kindly. “The other day, you told me you were tempted to crush my skull, as you so succinctly put it.”

Riddle stares at her nonchalantly. “Yes, I _did_ say that, didn’t I? But I am not very tempted at the moment.”

Hermione almost laughs. He is truly stripped of conscience, unapologetic and unrepentant. It is refreshing, in some ways.

“No, I was merely worried,” he continues, undeterred. "You seemed at a loss back there. I don’t fault you for it. Slughorn’s friends are a pack of slavering hounds.”

“Aren’t _you_ one of his friends, Mr. Riddle?”

He smirks. “As you keep reminding me, Madam Granger, there can be no friendship between a student and a teacher.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m glad the lesson is starting to stick.”

“Even so, I’m not yet discouraged.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t be a student forever,” he says, leaning artfully against a pillar. “If that is your only objection.”

Hermione cannot help a snort. “That is _not_ my only objection.”

Tom looks down at her with something like amusement. Hermione turns her head towards the window. Against all odds, sitting here with Riddle is more companionable than returning to the party.

“Since you stood up for Madam Goshawk, I don’t suppose you have any objections against Half-Bloods,” he remarks very casually.

Hermione blinks. “Of course I don’t. Why? What do you –?”

But it doesn’t take her long to connect the dots. The Riddle name has never rung any magical bells. It all clicks into place now. A Slytherin Half-Blood. Not the most common of things.

Tom smiles when he sees her expression.

“You see, we are both outsiders, one way or another.”

Hermione looks at him in a new light. Suddenly, all of his mannerisms and affectations make a lot more sense. The care he puts in his appearance, the perfect politeness and attention, the way he marshals those around him before they can marshal him, dressing himself up in power so as not to appear naked.

His greed may go beyond blood, but it is rooted in it too.

“You seem to have mastered the art of belonging better,” Hermione notes, not bothering to hide the fact that she _is_ impressed.

Tom inclines his head. “No art is perfect. No matter how well I perform, there will always be an element of doubt, which is why it’s not enough to belong, but to _command_. One must be superior, or perish.”

He looks at her intently as he tells her this, his eyes gliding over the plunge of her shoulder line. Hermione stands up from her stony seat. 

“You shouldn’t confide in me with such ideas, Mr. Riddle.”

“I am merely telling you, outsider to outsider. What I have done tonight by bringing you here is trying to make you look as if you belonged as well.”

Hermione blinks in astonishment. His logic, though deeply flawed, has a certain design to it.

“Aligning yourself with Dumbledore is not wise, at the moment,” he goes on, his voice more hushed. “Slughorn, for all his parading foolishness, is astute enough to have cozied up to the Ministry.”

Hermione considers him for a moment. “And where do _you_ stand in all this, Mr. Riddle?”

He smiles as he parts a drapery fold with his fingers. “Right by your side, of course, Madam Granger.”

He waits for her to pass.

Hermione suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, but she cannot entirely fault him the evasion. She would have never answered that honestly either. But the real answer does pique her curiosity.

She takes a step forward. Tom holds the drapery for her. 

As they come out together, he is the one who looks up first.

The white berries stand out against the green.

“Mistletoe,” he says, looking down at her with amusement.

Hermione darts away so quickly that she almost walks into another pillar. Tom lowers his chin with a chuckle.

She scowls, brushing the skirt of her dress. Lifting up her wand, she casts a non-verbal spell and the mistletoe slowly withers and expires.

Tom raises both eyebrows. “Was that really necessary?”

“It may be infested with Nargles,” she offers by way of explanation, knowing full well that there is no such thing as Nargles and the creatures are only the invention of Medea’s and her brother’s. But she does not care to explain herself further. The evening has been taxing enough already.

Tom can hardly suppress another chuckle.

Hermione brushes past him.

She can hear the music and dancing coming from the other room. With a resigned sigh, she walks back in, with Tom Riddle following closely behind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I should probably pace myself because I'll run out of fuel, but I can't seem to stop writing this story and I don't suppose you guys mind lol. I'm surprised at how quickly I am finishing chapters, almost like they're writing themselves. Here's to more updates! Thank you so much for your reviews, it's a pleasure to read them. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

_1938_

It starts in a bathroom. The second-floor girls’ lavatory, to be precise.

Little Tom hasn’t had his growth spurt yet. As an agile twelve year-old, he can sneak around corners without being seen. Sometimes, many times, he doesn’t want to be seen. He has learned the secret passages by heart. He knows how to make himself invisible. He likes to spend time by himself and think, away from his noisy schoolmates. What he likes most is to eavesdrop. He always tries to listen in on older people’s conversation, teachers and students alike. Tom Riddle knows the value of information. He’s still too small to subdue those who are bigger than him and he has not learned enough spells to ensure their obedience. The best he can do is bide his time and watch and listen. Stash the hallway whispers like galleons in a vault.

Lately, though, the whispers haven’t only come from teachers and students. Lately, the whispers have come from the _walls_. Little Tom is alarmed, at first. Walls are not known to whisper. These whispers are different, though. Commanding, but also inviting. The creature behind them seems to know him, seems to know that he likes to listen. The whispers follow him to class, follow him to meals, follow him to bed. 

_Come find me…come down and find me…come down to your lair…you have not visited in such a long time…_

Little Tom does not understand. He is frightened, but he rather enjoys the feeling. He likes being scared, because he senses there is a great power at Hogwarts that has singled him out.

At night, he tosses and turns between the sheets. The nightmares aren’t really nightmares. He’s not the one getting hurt. The brilliant amber eyes stare at him through a small mirror. The gaping mouth is full of sharp knives. He turns his head and the creature turns his head too. He shuts his mouth and the knives disappear. His bed suddenly feels wet and cold, but he is running hot with a terrible fever and the icy stone beneath him soothes his nerves. He crawls through the sheets like wet tunnels and rubs his flesh against the corners. He slinks through layers of dirt and grime, but always comes back clean.

He wakes up, each morning, in a pool of his own sweat, his body overexcited. It feels almost like a romance, a forbidden tryst with the unknown.

It takes him weeks to figure out where the whispers in the wall are taking him.

One evening, after dinner, he follows the voice as it slithers up to the second floor, down an empty corridor. The hissing grows stronger as Tom nears the girls’ lavatory. But then, it is drowned out by human voices, muffled, but still audible. He can hear two girls talking. Fighting, rather.

Tom quickly adopts the familiar pose of the eavesdropper. He scurries closer to the double doors. They have been magically locked with a slightly more advanced spell, but Tom manages to break it on his third try. He slides his fingers gently over the parting and the doors give way. He sneaks a look inside.

“…been trying to help you, Myrtle! That is all I’ve ever tried to do!” the angry voice berates.

The first girl is standing with her back to him. For a moment, all he can see of her is a mane of wild, tangled curls that reaches down to her waist. Then, a few more details emerge. A sweater has been tied haphazardly around her waist, covering half the length of her skirt. He can see a red “H” sewn on it.

The other girl is facing him. Though she seems younger, her appearance makes her look old before her time. Her sour face is contorted in a nasty snarl. Her lower lip trembles and her eyes are wet with unshed tears. Riddle vaguely recognizes her: a miserable Ravenclaw who always hangs about the dungeons, waiting for the older Mulciber brother to come out and talk to her. 

“Why? Why do you think I need _your_ help? What makes you so much _better_?” she sneers.

“I don’t think I’m better. But I know what it’s like to be an outsider, and I’m telling you that no matter how much you mirror his hateful attitude, he will never see you as an equal. He will only keep treating you in a way that makes you feel _worse_ about yourself –”

“Oh, very rich coming from you!” Myrtle jeers, fighting back tears. “You’re telling me off about Mulciber, while you have Potter and Weasley wrapped around your little finger.”

“It’s not like that at _all_. Fleamont and Septimus are different –”

“No, they’re not! You’re simply _jealous_ because they only see you as the know-it-all friend who helps them with their homework. It’s _pathetic_.”

“Myrtle –”

“Can’t you see? They’re only friends with you out of interest,” the other girl talks over her. “ _Face_ it, Hermione, you’re not their equal either. You just _pretend_ you are.”

The girl called Hermione is clearly rattled by Myrtle’s words, to judge from the slight shiver that runs down her back and unsettles her curls, but she remains calm.

“You’re obviously hurting, Myrtle, and I can understand your frustration, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re angry with Mulciber, not me. My situation is very different from yours.”

Myrtle opens her mouth and closes it. A dangerous little smile suddenly dimples her cheek.

“You know what? You’re right. Our situations _are_ different. I may be a Muggleborn, but at least I’m not a pathetic Mudblood whore.” 

The reaction is swift. So swift that Tom does not understand how Hermione did it. One moment, Myrtle is calling her a whore, the next the snivelling girl is raised into the air and slammed against the opposite wall with a heavy thud.

Tom’s lips part. He had not even seen her draw her wand.

Hermione’s hair almost crackles with electricity as she takes a few steps forward.

Myrtle is held up against the wall. Her eyes are wide with fear. Her feet scuff against the tiles, trying to find purchase. She whimpers.

“I want you to think carefully about your words and actions, Myrtle,” Hermione speaks very calmly, although Tom can hear the rage boiling underneath. “I want you to think about who your friends and enemies really are. I’ve always tried to be a friend.”

Hermione gently lowers her an inch, but not enough for the girl’s feet to touch the ground.

“Do _not_ make me your enemy now,” she warns, flicking her wand menacingly.

Myrtle growls under her breath, a hateful look in her eye, but she is not stupid enough to bait the lioness. She lowers her head.

After a few moments, Hermione lets her go.

Myrtle does not wait for the older girl to speak. She pushes past Hermione angrily, running out of the bathroom and almost colliding with Tom in the process. He stands back in time.

Myrtle’s whining follows her down the corridor and eventually dissolve into silence. Tom nears the door again.

Hermione is leaning against one of the sinks, arms on each side, staring into the mirror.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she murmurs softly, pulling back her curls.

“She deserved it,” Tom speaks out. He hadn’t meant to. He really hadn’t, but there is something about her that demands a response, like fuel to kindling. He cannot resist.

Hermione looks up, startled.

Her chocolate-brown eyes widen. She had not expected an audience.

Tom tries not to blush as he withstands her gaze. There is something both gentle and scouring in the way she examines him. 

He gives her a small, disarming smile, the kind that always makes the adults around him coo in appreciation.

The tension in her shoulders slackens. She smiles back.

Tom feels wonderful warmth pool in his belly. No one has smiled at him like that, or at least, he cannot remember another occasion.

They stand like that for a few moments, until Hermione lets go of the sink and walks towards the exit. Towards him. 

She passes near him. Tom opens his mouth. He wants to ask her about the spell, but Hermione lifts a forefinger to her mouth and presses her lips against it in a show of silence. 

No, it’s more than that. She’s looking at him expectantly. She’s asking a favour.

This is an understanding.

Tom lifts his own forefinger to his mouth and nods.

Hermione gives him one last smile before she vanishes down the corridor.

Tom shivers as he stands there with a finger pressed to his mouth, almost like a kiss. 

After a while, he lowers his hand. He walks inside the girls’ lavatory. 

He stops in front of the sink where she had rested her arms. He touches the chipped enamel. It still bears a trace of her warmth. He looks in the same mirror.

 _Come down and find me…_ the creature whispers invitingly.

Tom swallows thickly. A pang of hunger like no other seizes his entire body. 

_Yes, I have. I’ve found you._ And he thinks about the older girl with static in her hair.

In a sense, the creature led him to her, and she led him to the creature. 

A few moments later, his eyes land on the snake outline on the side of the faucet.

* * *

Little Tom sits at breakfast, sandwiched between his hare-brained housemates, and stares across at the Gryffindor table. He stares and stares.

Hermione absentmindedly stirs the teaspoon in her tea as she turns another page of her book. The chatter around her doesn’t seem to bother her. She is ensconced in her own private world. 

What is that world like? 

He follows the motion of her fingers around the spoon. He thinks about her mouth and her smile and the pact they sealed.

He keeps wondering if she’ll look up, if she’ll notice him.

She does not.

It burns him a little, but in a pleasant way. It is like the whispers in the wall, torturous but seductive.

He hasn’t told anyone what happened in the bathroom, and neither has Myrtle, from the look of things. She must be scared of Hermione.

 _Good_. She ought to be.

He wants to make Myrtle just as afraid. He wants to make everyone in this school balk at his presence. He wants to be just as powerful, _more_ powerful. Hermione would notice him then, wouldn’t she? More than that, she’d see they have something in common.

 _We both hide our rage, we both make it small, but it’s not small_ , he thinks, as he watches her.

Hermione smiles at something Weasley tells her. She rolls her eyes fondly and passes what looks like an essay over to him. Weasley squeezes her shoulder and makes a big show of thanking her.

Tom’s lower lip curls in distaste.

She must be a good friend to those in need. She tried to help Myrtle because she saw a kindred spirit, someone like her, but she was wrong there. Myrtle did not deserve her friendship. Those two boys don’t either. They’re far too stupid. She is wasting her kindness on them.

He can be kind too to those who deserve it. He can appear friendly.

He clears his expression, unclenches his fist under the table.

Yes, he can be like that, if she wants him to.

* * *

He is tempted to follow her to class and stop her in the middle of the corridor to tell her. He wants her to know what he’s found in the lavatory.

 _Thanks to you_ , he’d say. Without her, he feels he wouldn’t have found the Chamber, not really. Would she like to see it with him? She seems like someone who appreciates knowledge of strange, forbidden things. It wouldn’t hurt her. Nothing would. The Chamber listens to him.

Childish fantasies, of course. He knows he can’t really approach her. She’s about to graduate. He’s barely twelve.

He writes about her in his diary instead.

_Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, best student in her year. Friends with Potter and Weasley. Muggleborn. Special, but not only because of her blood. Impressive wand casting. Fiery temper. Merciless when insulted. Wild, tangled hair. Kind, dark eyes…_

_We share a secret._

* * *

He doesn’t get a chance to speak to her before she graduates. She leaves Hogwarts and he thinks he will never see her again, not until he leaves Hogwarts too.

All he can do in the meantime is gather knowledge. Listen and watch. Catch traces of her name. Tempt people into divulging information about her.

He knows that talking openly about her would be strange. Why would a Slytherin boy be interested in a Muggleborn witch? He’s not, or he knows he _shouldn’t_ be. But he cannot forget her. There is, and always will be, something thrilling and forbidden and _eerie_ about their moment in the bathroom. No one else has ever made him feel like that. There are other girls and boys he entertains along the years, makes them despair of his caress, but all the while he feels nothing. None of them really register, only her and her finger on her lips, on _his_ lips, telling him to be quiet, telling him to keep this between them.

The first time he strokes his cock, he knows he shouldn’t, but he thinks about the static in her hair and the way she slammed a girl against a wall. He comes all over his hands. He licks the seed from his thumb and smears the rest on the stone snake’s eyes above him. The Chamber seems to roar with his desire. It wants her too. It wants not to be _empty_. 

When the basilisk becomes too hard to control, when it demands flesh and blood to fill up that emptiness, it makes all the more sense to give it Myrtle. She deserves it.

He secretly hopes that Hermione will find out. Maybe she will read about it in the papers and remember Myrtle as the insufferable, snivelling girl who called her horrible names. Maybe she will feel bad for a few moments, but then secretly, deep down, she will not feel bad at all.

Maybe she will remember him.

* * *

_1943_

It is clear she doesn’t remember him.

Perhaps the small memory of him is buried along with her other school-day reminiscences, waiting to be unearthed. But he doesn’t want to rush it.

When he first saw her in the Great Hall after an absence of five years, his breath left his lungs. Lungs burn without air. He burned quietly for hours, pretending to be perfectly indifferent when Dippet introduced her to the students. He pretended not to know her when Malfoy asked him who the “bint” was. He pretended all the way to the Common Room, but when he lay down in bed that night he wanted to scream and gnash his teeth and tear Malfoy to pieces.

His anger surprised him. He was angry because – because the obsession was still _there_ , because it felt like no time had passed at all since that day he’d caught her in that second-floor bathroom. He had never really surpassed the moment. It was a fresh wound, deliciously raw.

Had he known that it could be this _easy_ , he would have killed Irma Pince himself. Lucky for him, she died of her own accord.

No, not luck.

Fate.

A divine intervention.

It has to be.

There is no other explanation for the unfolding events, ever since that day in the girls’ lavatory.

Salazar led him to her and now he has returned her to him.

It’s inevitable.

She may wear her hair differently now, she may affect maturity and wisdom, but that sweet, merciless rage must still be there, inside. Their secret understanding. That long-ago smile – the smile of naughty, ugly children.

What else could it mean that she has returned?

The very fabric of history – both Muggle and magical – has been set in motion for him and her to meet again.

The Heir of Slytherin is fated to remake the world, but he won’t have to do it alone, will he?

Of course, the lioness is hard to impress, difficult to befriend. All worthwhile predators are.

He’s tickled by her show of authority, captivated by that seductive sternness of the indomitable mistress. She wears it well. She is every inch the companion and ally he deserves. 

Her stubbornness angers and delights him. She fills him with rage and desire, while she acts indifferent. But she cannot dismiss him. He knows she thinks about him too. He's seen it and felt it in the sting of her magic, in the strength of her wards, in her desire to catch him, in her desire to hurt him. 

She’s curious about him, she can’t help it. She watches him, when she thinks he can’t tell. Her eyes have betrayed her many times.

She doesn’t know it yet, what they truly share.

But she’ll find out, eventually. 

“Mr. Riddle.”

“Madam Granger.”

He passes by her desk with a smile. It’s meant to be, after all. 


End file.
